Pressure Point
by HappinessIsaWarmSociopath
Summary: Magnussen watches from the shadows long before he enters the game, Sherlock is less emotionally oblivious than he appears, and one poor journalist finds herself stuck with an impossible task she didn't even know she'd been appointed. Drama, romance, a delightfully twisty plot in the making, and new ties between S2 and S3.
1. Everything Starts in England

**A/N: This was going to be a modern adaptation of the Sherlock Holmes short story "The Solitary Cyclist", but the plot took on the life of its own. Now, the only thing that remains of the original story is the OC's name and basic background, and a couple of character names. While I am striving to keep this realistic, the plot will move more quickly than **_**Easier With Eyes Closed. **_** Rated M more for Magnussen being one creepy fucker than anything else. This chapter is mostly experimental, so if you want to see more please, please comment. And while I'll try to Brit Pick the obvious things, I'm sure there will be inconsistences, so please chalk it up to me being a clueless American and try to look past them. Thank you. **

**Disclaimer: I do not own the original Violet Smith, BBC's Sherlock, or any elements from the original story. This story is dedicated to the lovely (and immensely talented) elbafo, who is kindly letting me toy with her plot bunny. Check out her Sherlock/OC stories if you want beautifully written, well-characterized romance. **

**Chapter 1: Everything Starts in England**

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><p><em>"'You will excuse me, I am sure. It is my business,' said he, as he dropped it. 'I nearly fell into the error of supposing you were typewriting.'"<em>

_-Sherlock Holmes, "The Solitary Cyclist"_

The call came at 5:00 a.m. on a Saturday. Violet Smith had still been in the throes of a most pleasant dream in which she ran into famous consulting detective Sherlock Holmes at a bookshop and he revealed he found her articles on his cases from an academic view point refreshing. There was no great love confession, only a quick yet pleasant (an obvious indicator it wasn't reality) chat, but Violet was more than pleased with the simple joy of meeting one of her idols face to face. Her dream self experienced a brief flash of annoyed confusion when the Chopin playing in the background merged into a high electronic stream of noise before Real Violet came to the realization the sound wasn't part of the illusion. She awoke with a groan, punching her alarm clock on instinct before realizing "Tubular Bells" had never been her alarm; it was her ringtone.

"Vi, if you don't turn that sodding phone off, I will personally make sure to bring Pool Boy home every night this week and we won't even try to be quiet," Carol's voice whined from the adjacent room. Violet snorted and sent a glower in the direction of her door, already predicting she would have to spend the rest of the morning tending to her hung-over roommate. And the reminder of Carol's newest escort of a sort, a nameless blonde with muscles everywhere _except _his head, certainly didn't help. Violet hadn't had a boyfriend since she'd _secured _(i.e. was forced into) her current job. She grabbed her phone from the dresser, intending on unleashing a few choice words on whoever was calling her at such an ungodly hour on a Saturday before she noticed the name on the screen. Her face drained of color.

"'Morning Violet," came a familiar Irish brogue on the other end when she picked up. Violet blinked.

"Janine?" she asked, clutching it like a lifeline. Janine knew never to call her on a weekend unless it was an emergency. And emergencies with her employer were stressful, messy, and _long. _

"Sorry to disturb you," said Janine, sounding genuinely apologetic. "Don't kill the messenger."

"What is it? What do you need?" Violet liked Janine. She was good fun, dressed nicely, and could paint the nails on her right hand as neatly as the ones on her left, an impressive skill to someone whose artistic abilities extended no further than accidentally ingesting a bottle of glitter in primary school. But none of that made up for the fact that Janine calling on a Saturday was the most sure-fire way to spoil Violet's weekend before it began.

"You're needed over here," Janine said shortly, "He doesn't want to see you himself, but he insisted I call and tell you first thing anyway. I can't argue with him, Vi."

"I know you can't," Violet sighed. "Tell him or anyone else in charge I don't work on Saturdays and refuse to make any exceptions. Good luck. I'm going back to bed. Carol had another wild night and I need all the rest I can get before I have to hold her hair back and make sure she doesn't vomit on anything important."

"He also insisted I tell you that if you aren't in the car he sent over in five minutes, he'll come there himself and deal with you personally," Janine said hesitantly. Violet closed her eyes and let loose a long-suffering sigh. She couldn't argue with that. Dreading what she was about to see, she pulled back her drapes and peered out the window, groaning when she saw the sleek black car against the curb.

"Fuck," she hissed, kneeling and sticking her head under the bed in an attempt to find a pair of shoes that weren't falling apart or stained with dubious substances. "Janine, I'm not even dressed. Does he expect me to waltz in there in my fucking underwear?"

"That would probably be perfectly agreeable, seeing as you're supposed to meet with Woodley," said Janine dryly. Violet scowled heartily at the very mention of his name. He wasn't quite as bad as Charles Augustus Magnussen himself, but he was just as lecherously vile and Violet had no desire to fend off his wandering eyes first thing on a Saturday morning. "Just grab a robe and go, Vi. Stop by my office on your way up and I'll lend you something for the trip home and try to get you a bite to eat. I'll have plenty of time. You're not the only one working ridiculous hours on the weekend."

She sounded miserable. Violet pursed her lips, feeling a bit guilty about the fuss she was making. Poor Janine had to cater to Magnussen's every whim every fucking day of the week. She had a remarkable amount of leeway in comparison, and often didn't even have to interact with the man. But somehow, it was still hard to count her blessings, especially remembering the deliciously lazy weekends she'd enjoyed before being shoved face first into his employment.

"Okay," she said, scanning her room for her favorite fluffy dressing gown and grabbing one of Carol's flimsy silk ones with a resigned sigh when she didn't see it. "I can't imagine why he'd need to arrange this _now. _Is he finally going to have Woodley fire me for refusing to churn out shoddily written rumors like the rest of his little sheep?"

"It's amazing he hasn't already," said Janine, "You know Magnussen never buys into academic writing unless it makes him money, and let's face it: It usually doesn't."

"Yeah, well, the satisfaction of respectability in a field where integrity is punished is enough for me," said Violet through gritted teeth. "It would a be a relief to be free of his tabloid shite. Working for his network is going to leave a stain on my reputation, no matter how objective and researched my own work is."

"Spare me the lecture, hun, I've heard it before," said Janine, disinterested as she always was when Violet showed signs of a budding rant on the gossip-hungry wolves content to publish anything under the sun if it made an extra buck with no concern whatsoever for the lives they were ruining. "Now get your pretty little arse down those stairs and into the car before he marches over there himself."

"Yeah, that's probably a good idea," Violet said, cringing in remembrance of the last time Magnussen had decided to pay her a visit. "Who the fuck does a check-in inside someone's bedroom anyway? It's a complete violation of privacy."

She could practically hear Janine's shudder on the other end. Violet snatched a pair of Carol's leopard-print slippers, resigning herself to sporting the Essex housewife look the rest of the day. Her hair, unfortunately, was a lost cause. Not that she cared about impressing a creep like Woodley, but she looked a fright. Her bangs were standing on end and her normally manageable loose shoulder-length curls appeared to have doubled in size over night. Brushing them was going to _hurt_.

"You've got two minutes to get in the car," said Janine, "Good luck."

"Wait…" Even as she prepared to open the door and face the blinding (for a March morning in London) sunshine and men who would not allow her to speak on the phone, Violet didn't want Janine to hang up. She needed a friendly voice, someone who understood the very real fear involved with Magnussen's manipulation. "Do you want to do something after he's done with me? It seems like it's been ages since we talked outside of work."

Janine was silent for a dragging moment. Violet knew all her hang-ups; Magnussen was notorious for wanting to be the sole variable in people's lives, and when he didn't get his way, his revenge was terrible. Rachel Lesley had attempted a relationship with another journalist working in his network—The resultant articles on her former life as an adult film star had destroyed her career and caused her to move out of the city entirely. Violet didn't want to meet a similar fate, but she needed solidarity with someone who understood what that stress was like.

"Sure," Janine said finally, "But let's go somewhere out of the way, alright? We can do some shopping and get a real meal. I'll bet you could use something other than Indian on the go."

Violet smiled.

"No shopping. I know how long it takes with you on hand." She sighed, knowing she had to get into the car now if she didn't want her flat to suffer. "Okay, I'll see you soon. I miss you."

"I miss you too," Janine said. She sounded like she meant it. "You're the only one with any morals in this hellhole."

She hung up. The silence over the line was deafening. Violet attempted to swallow her nerves, the motion sending her whole stomach in a whirl of knots. She stepped outside.

The backdoor of the car swung open, tinted windows revealing nothing of who sat inside. She climbed in without thinking too hard on where she was headed, unsurprised when no one acknowledged her presence. The driver spared her petal pink robe a disdainful glance in the rearview mirror before speeding off, leaving Violet wondering if she was hurtling towards her doom or freedom. She wasn't sure which possibility scared her more.

"Is Woodley going to fire me?" she asked, inhaling a lungful of leather softener smell. Her words fell flat in the silence that followed, leaving Violet wishing Janine had gleaned a little more information as she obviously wasn't going to get any from the driver. "Thank you, that's real helpful. I'll just sit here without a single fucking clue about what's happening, yeah?"

Still nothing. Violet stared out the window glumly, feeling exposed and awkward in her fraying cotton knickers and thin silk wrap. When CAM Global Network came into view in all of its imposing, glass-sheathed glory, the knots in her stomach turned to an icy chip of panic that couldn't be cured. She couldn't waltz in there in fucking faux-fur slippers amongst all those neat-suited journalists and executives. The driver opened the door for her, leaving Violet with no choice but to stand on shaky legs and stare up at the sunlight bouncing off all those windows. The whole building always looked far too bright to be real.

"You head straight up," said the driver, unimpressed with the sight himself.

"I need to see Janine first," Violet frowned.

"You head straight up," he repeated. Violet scoffed. She was _not _going to see Woodley half-naked with a bush where her hair usually sat. She would look sleek and professional, even if she was walking to the end of her career. Unfortunately, there was no avoiding making her way through the throngs of judgmental journalists lurking just beyond the revolving glass doors. Violet kept her head bowed as she made her way inside even though she knew it was futile. She was rather well known, and frequently scoffed at. Most assumed there was no place for her brand of writing (decency) in a network as large as Magnussen's. Sure enough, the second she was inside, everyone she passed turned to glare at her, as if they found the ridiculous scuffling noises Carol's slippers were making against the marble floor highly offensive.

"Violet! Violet Smith!"

Fuck. Violet turned, plastering on a fake smile. The man coming towards her was bandy-legged and ruddy faced with a massive quivering ginger mustache that seemed to have a life of its own. A groan of dismay escaped her before she could stop herself.

"Mr. Woodley," she greeted politely, wishing he wouldn't use her first name. Woodley grinned, oblivious to her discomfort.

"Dressed for the occasion, I see," he said, eyeing her thin robe appreciatively. Violet barely repressed a shudder. "What luck to run into you here! I was just heading out to get myself a sandwich. But it can wait. Come up with me and we can have a nice chat."

"Well, I wasn't exactly given much warning," said Violet, "And I was under the impression you needed to see me about something important, not just 'chat'. I don't work on Saturdays." It was difficult to keep the venom out of her voice, but she was offended by his disregard for her personal life.

"Yes, terribly sorry about that," Woodley said unconcernedly, not sounding apologetic in the least. "But I couldn't tell _Janine _the details. She is only a PA, after all." He chuckled like he'd said something amusing. Violet regarded him coldly. Janine did more work than anybody else in the establishment, and this flippant dismissal of everything she put up with from a man who did little more than order around struggling journalists made Violet's blood boil.

"Well, why didn't you have someone _worthy _call and give me information?" she asked, voice dripping with sarcasm that went straight over Woodley's head.

"Mr. Magnussen thought you'd be more receptive to a call from her than someone with more authority," explained Woodley. Violet's eyes narrowed. It concerned her that Magnussen himself had personally arranged to have her come in, though it didn't seem like Woodley was on the brink of firing her (really, that would have been more of a relief than whatever mystery purpose Woodley had yet to reveal). "Both of you being pretty young ladies, right?"

Violet's face soured even more. She stayed silent.

"Right," said Woodley awkwardly, "Let's head on up."

Violet trailed him reluctantly, scowling when he held the door of his office open and made a grand sweeping motion. His fake concern made her feel sticky all over, a far worse feeling than the flashes of anger that accompanied the crude comments he fired at her when he wasn't performing Magnussen's dirty work. Woodley's office hadn't changed since she'd last been forced inside. The desk was still littered with messily scrawled notes, a calendar with smoky-eyed, pouting, lingerie clad women still hung next to the door (honestly, how he got away with hanging what was barely a step away from _porn_ in his office Violet would never understand), and the overwhelming scent of some zealously masculine cologne still lingered in every corner. Violet sat in the thin chair already in place opposite Woodley's, watching him with narrow eyes.

"Now we can get started," said Woodley cheerfully, either oblivious to her hostility or ignoring it entirely. "To begin, Mr. Magnussen greatly enjoyed your articles on the Baskerville experiments and the recovery of that painting…what was it?"

"Falls of the Reichenbach," supplied Violet, knowing full well that Magnussen had only read her writing to get more information to trick her into doing whatever he wanted. Her style—concise, objective, and factual—was not what the majority of British citizens was interested in reading. She didn't know what she was being set up for, but she could smell trouble, and this feigned interest was most worrisome.

"Of course," said Woodley genially, leaning back to get a good look at her. "You are very interested in Sherlock Holmes, Violet."

"I'd prefer it if we kept things strictly professional," Violet said with as much politeness as she could muster. "'Ms. Smith' will do just fine. If you're going to continue parroting Magnussen's words back to me, don't even attempt to pass them as your own. It's quite obvious you aren't capable of his level of manipulation independently. And I have a purely academic interest in Sherlock Holmes. Nothing more."

"Now, now, let's not get touchy," said Woodley, cheeks turning puce. "Mr. Magnussen has a proposition for you. He has an interest in Sherlock Holmes himself. An academic one, like you." Violet scoffed. Woodley ignored her. "How would you like the chance to speak to Mr. Holmes? Uncover the man beneath the hat, so to speak."

"Sherlock Holmes' personal life is none of my business, and frankly, I would find discussing it with the man himself quite boring when there are so many better things to talk about. He's a genius. I'd rather hear about his work," Violet answered. She was _not _going to write about Sherlock Holmes' secret gay trysts or whatever else all those airheaded reporters were always on about. Not if Magnussen threatened to give the boot to her career and leave her starving on the streets. Well, in that case she would have to. But she'd be dragged into it kicking and screaming first.

"Good. Very Good. Mr. Magnussen predicted you might say something along those lines," Woodley said, eyeing her appraisingly. "Forgive my saying so, but you look quite lovely when _passionate_, Violet."

She barely repressed a shudder, unsurprised that he was deliberately ignoring her wishes but annoyed all the same.

"Mr. Magnussen has a special task for you. He's quite sure Sherlock Holmes would agree that his personal life is irrelevant to the remarkable work he does, and thinks you would be just the person to interview him about his unique profession."

"Sherlock Holmes doesn't do interviews," said Violet. "He finds the whole thing despicable, and frankly, I don't blame him."

"And that is why we believe he would be more receptive to your particular brand of work. You are a young woman of notable integrity. I'm sure someone with Mr. Holmes' deductive skills will be able to see that. You can write up the piece however you choose, as long as you get him talking."

"You actually want something entirely academic published?" Violet asked incredulously. "Won't it stick out like a sore thumb amongst all the other poorly executed lies you call writing?"

"It already does, dear," said Woodley, unconcerned. "Don't forget, Violet, that you work here too. You can pretend to be morally superior to the rest of us, but in the end, your worth is defined by the company you keep."

"You actually think I work here by choice?" Violet snapped. She knew her rising temper could get her into serious trouble, but Woodley's nonchalance as he deliberately provoked her made her want to reach across the desk and smack the smug look straight off his face. "You think I was fantasizing about working with a network reliant on blackmail and petty threats to make a profit when I got my degree?"

"Of course not," grinned Woodley. "But here you are anyway. And that reminds me…Mr. Magnussen asked that I inquire about your mother's health, and ask if your income is enough to cover her care?"

Violet nearly vibrated with repressed rage. She couldn't believe his nerve. It was just like Magnussen to give Woodley the tools to provoke, expose, and humiliate her into doing his bidding. And it was working. Violet was furious with herself for giving him the reaction he craved.

"Fuck. You," she spat, beyond caring about the consequences. She stood before she could reach out and strike Woodley, fully intent on storming straight out and salvaging the rest of her day. Woodley just smirked, clearly enjoying watching her lose her temper.

"Now, now, there's no need for profanity. Surely you are aware of the consequences if you refuse this simple job?"

The open threat snapped Violet back to her senses. She inhaled deeply, conjured up an image of her mother, and managed to sit. The reminder of her duties as a daughter was all she needed to calm herself enough to listen to the rest of Magnussen's mind fuckery.

"Excellent," Woodley muttered, a leer slithering into place just under that vile ginger mustache. "It really isn't that difficult of a job. You interview Mr. Holmes, write a piece of your choosing, and you're done."

"And how should I plan this interview?" asked Violet, hands writhing nervously in the bunches of pink silk cloaking her lap. "I'm positive lingering outside of Baker Street will only annoy him and decrease my chances of speaking to him."

"That isn't a problem. We've thought this through thoroughly, Violet, and this interview is important in ways you can't understand." His eyes darkened dangerously, sending a jolt of fear fizzing down her spine. "You've heard of the criminal mastermind Jim Moriarty?"

"Obviously," Violet muttered, keeping her eyes on her anxious hands. She wished he'd stop asking stupid questions and get to the damn point, but after her outburst she didn't want to risk speaking up again.

"Mr. Magnussen has it on good authority that Moriarty will resurface and go on trial in a matter of months. Arranging your attendance won't be a difficulty. Sherlock Holmes will definitely be there, giving you your chance to speak to him."

"How do you know all this?" asked Violet, a wave a gooseflesh breaking over her arms at this latest display of Magnussen's omniscience. "Does Moriarty come here for tea every Tuesday?"

Woodley chuckled in a way that made it clear he didn't find her feeble attempt at a joke amusing.

"Moriarty is something of a hotspot in our organization," he said, chilled eyes unrelenting. "That's all you need to know. I trust you can predict what will happen if you inform anyone of this knowledge."

The gooseflesh was edging onto her stomach. Violet still didn't look at him, feeling small, scared, and foolish.

"How am I supposed to convince him to give me an interview?" she asked in a weak voice. "Holmes hates the press. He's not going to make any exceptions. He'll probably cut me down with a deduction and go on his merry way." Imagining Sherlock Holmes dissecting her sent a hot shock of something that could have been excitement or terror through her. Violet shook it away.

"Be unrelenting. Use your charms," Woodley dismissed. "It doesn't matter, as long as he speaks with you."

"I don't understand why interviewing Holmes is so important," Violet said, praying someone would find her a way out of this impossible task. She was interested in Sherlock Holmes. She occasionally fantasized about meeting him in an ordinary situation, engaging in a brief yet scintillating discussion, and parting ways. But she was well aware they were only fantasies, and that Sherlock Holmes was regarded as a royal pain in the arse by nearly everyone who encountered him. She was being set up for failure.

"Your understanding isn't necessary to the situation," said Woodley, unconcerned. "I'll have Janine call you in again before the trial to take care of last minute preparations. Now off with you. Have a good morning."

"Too late," Violet muttered mutinously. She rose and left the office without further ado, the humiliation blooming in her stomach refusing to dissipate. There were more judgmental stares, but they were thankfully easier to ignore as she made her way up the hall. But she couldn't stop the rattling of her breath, and knew that if she didn't make it to Janine in three minutes she'd be in the middle of a full blown panic attack. Violet inhaled shakily and braced herself against the wall, ignoring the whispers of the people around her and withdrawing her phone. Janine thankfully picked up immediately.

"Violet? What's wrong? What did Woodley want with you?"

"Can you take a lunch break right now?" Violet said, casting a wary glance in the direction of Woodley's office. "It's pretty urgent, but I don't want to talk about it here."

"Actually, I can," said Janine, "Magnussen has a meeting with John Garvie and won't be back until seven at the earliest. He won't need me. I'll meet you outside, yeah? We'll get a bite and you can tell me all about it."

She hung up, leaving Violet marginally calmer and supremely grateful she had at least one real friend in the snake pit. She had first bumped into Janine after being taken in by Woodley to be "interviewed" for a writing job. The "interview" turned out to be an hour of intimidation tactics used to ensure her cooperation, including the not-so-subtle discussion of everything she had ever tried to hide. There was nothing that could land her in jail—but her career was important, as was maintaining the firm morals she'd nurtured her entire life. But she'd had to pay for school somehow without financial aid from any of her family members, and she hadn't made the smartest decisions in her desperation to scrape her way out of uni without drowning in student loans. And any job in journalism at all had seemed like a golden opportunity at the time. She hadn't realized until it was too late that CAM Global News was utterly toxic. But Janine had been one good thing to come out of it. She wasn't more than a work friend, but she was always willing to help whenever Violet was feeling particularly terrorized, and did manage to make the time to go out for coffee with her and make fun of Woodley and his ridiculous mustache.

Janine was indeed waiting outside, looking lovely as always in a goldenrod sheath dress she managed to pull off with a frustrating lack of effort. Violet looked sickly in yellow, far too pale to pull off any of the bright colors Janine did. She trotted towards her with a forced smile, desperate to get as far away from CAM Global News as possible.

"You aren't going to believe what Magnussen's forcing me to do," she said immediately, seizing Janine's elbow and dragging her in the direction of the sidewalk. "Let's walk, okay? I can tell you about it on the way to Café Luce."

"Wait up, these shoes are far too uncomfortable to walk quickly in," Janine whined, giving Violet's kitten heels an envious glance. "I never thought I'd say this, but maybe the practical approach does hold some merit."

"I've been telling you this for a long time," said Violet with an eye roll. They made it past the block and Violet stopped, glancing anxiously behind her. "Okay, we're good. You know about Sherlock Holmes, right Janine?"

Janine raised an eyebrow.

"Vi, you mention him on a daily basis, not to mention every article you've ever written features him in some way. It's pretty obvious you're obsessed."

"Hardly a difficult deduction," said Violet in her best baritone, though her Sherlock Holmes voice turned out more like an excellent impression of what Marilyn Monroe and Darth Vader's love child might sound like. "And I'm not _obsessed. _I find what he does extremely interesting, just like most of the population would if they'd stop drooling over him and John Watson together for two damned seconds."

"Interesting, sure," Janine snorted. "You think he's _hot. _Smart really is your type, huh?"

"With that bone structure, can you blame me?" Violet murmured, thinking of Sherlock's Holmes perfect cheekbones and feeling a bit guilty about the flush that spread through her. She was hardly going to have a chance of successfully speaking to him if she was drooling the entire time. Not that she'd have a chance anyway. "Believe it or not, nice takes precedence over smart, and I hear Sherlock Holmes is a real arse."

"Yes, well, that wouldn't matter for one shag, would it?" shrugged Janine.

"He's also asexual," Violet commented mildly before catching herself. "Not that I want to shag him in the first place. Dammit, Janine! Do you want to hear or not?"

"Yes, yes, of course," said Janine, "But let me get my coffee first, yeah? I'm a better listener when caffeinated."

By the time they were settled in, Violet had already launched into a vivid retelling of what had occurred in Woodley's office (leaving out the bits about Moriarty and the trial. Woodley's threat was still hanging over her), only to find that Janine didn't see anything to be horrified about.

"I don't get what the problem is," she said when Violet was finished and looking at her expectantly for sympathy. "The man is practically your celebrity crush. What's so terrible about interviewing him?"

Violet gaped at her, completely incredulous.

"Uh, maybe the fact that Sherlock Holmes is not about to speak to any journalists, let alone one from CAM Global News. People know Magnussen and they _hate _him and his employees."

"So don't tell him you work for Magnussen," said Janine, now attempting eye contact with an attractive body builder type sitting at the corner table.

"He'll be able to tell I'm withholding information in a second," Violet replied, shaking her head. "I'm a terrible liar, especially when I'm feeling guilty."

"What do you even have to be guilty about?" asked Janine. "Magnussen's giving you free reign to write what you want. And you've never published anything dishonest in your life. You're one of the most wholesome people I know."

"He makes a living out of hurting people," Violet said, pursing her lips. "He'll find a way to twist my words. And I doubt Sherlock Holmes will have read anything else I've written. He's a busy man."

"I don't know. You do come off as intelligent," Janine said thoughtfully. "Maybe he'll surprise you. Just smile prettily and play it by ear. You'll be fine."

"Fine? You know what Magnussen does to people who fail him. You know what he does for entertainment. I'm not famous. But I will lose every single reader I have if he reveals the thing with Carruthers. Why do you think I have to work for him? I certainly didn't work for my degree thinking I was going to spend all my time and effort writing for a bunch of idiots who don't give a damn about anything other than gossip and money."

"So you had an affair with a married man," Janine shrugged. Violet shushed her, glancing around nervously, and Janine rolled her eyes. "Calm down, no one here will recognize you. But seriously, lots of people fuck older men. It's a thing. No one's going to burn you at the stake, sweetie."

"It's more complicated than that, Janine," Violet said miserably. "I tutored his daughter while he was paying me to sleep with him. Even if it doesn't destroy my career, do you know what people will say about me? Do you know what my mum will think? It would break her heart."

"How the hell did she think you were making that much money?" Janine hissed. "A lemonade stand? Look, Vi, sex isn't a crime. Yeah, it'll look a bit shady since he was married and respectable and all, and people might call you a whore for a while. But it'll blow over. Maybe you can write something about life as a sugar baby." She smirked.

"Not helping," Violet snapped. "I don't have any problem with sex. It's impossible to be a prude and live with Caroline. But I work so hard to come out on top in this job and it wouldn't be fucking fair if I lost it all because Sherlock Holmes is an utter cock. Not to mention that he'll probably be able to tell everything in a matter of seconds and _announce _it in the most embarrassing way possible."

She glowered at the table, an image of Sherlock Holmes proclaiming to the entire jury and assigned reporters that she was practically a former prostitute coming to mind. After which he went on to reveal she had sucked her thumb until the age of eleven, danced around like a loon to bad 80's music when no one was home, and had a secret belly button piercing. The miserable shudder that went through her at this terrible fantasy was violent enough to induce a frown from Janine.

"Are you alright? You look like you just caught a chill."

"Sorry, just got lost in the stress of my imminent doom for a second there," Violet said gloomily.

"God, you're way too pessimistic," Janine scoffed with an eye roll. "Look, Vi, with this sort of attitude, you're setting yourself up for failure. If you believe, you succeed. Now, look at me." Violet caught her eyes reluctantly. "You're one of the most clever people I know. If anyone can work up a way to talk to Sherlock Holmes, it's you. What are you going to have to do to ensure he's receptive?"

Violet contemplated the question for a moment. Sherlock Holmes would see through any masks she put up in seconds. Honesty was important, then. She'd have to be her true self, even if her true self was a former thumb sucking overly pessimistic journalist working for a master blackmailer. And by all accounts, Sherlock Holmes was exceedingly arrogant and interested in little other than his own brain. Granted, his brain was unusually fascinating. So playing to his ego would probably be to her advantage.

"I can't lie. I have to be upfront, but not annoyingly insistent. And I have to keep his personal life out of it. Not that I even care about it in the least. This has to be about his work and nothing frivolous if I'm to stand a chance," Violet said, inhaling deeply. Janine smiled in satisfaction.

"There you go. And make sure you wear something pretty. You underestimate the power of a nice smile and decent fashion choices," she said wisely. It was Violet's turn to roll her eyes.

"And you underestimate just how much Sherlock Holmes won't give a fuck," she grinned. Janine's phone beeped, initiating a groan and panicked expletive when she checked the screen.

"_Shit. _Magnussen needs me to call Garvie. Sorry Vi, but I've got to go. Keep your hopes up, yeah? It's not as bad as you make it out to be."

"Nope, I feel a lot better now," Violet said with her most convincing carefree smile. "Thanks. You really are a lifesaver, you know."

"I do know," said Janine, "But it is a shame Magnussen doesn't see it. I'll call you later."

Violet watched her leave. The second the welcome bell rang and the door slammed shut, the smiled melted, leaving a mask of pure terror. Violet buried her face in her hands and groaned loud enough to cause an older woman enjoying a mug of tea to shoot her a concerned look.

She was _so_ completely fucked.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: If you want to see more, please review. I do want to know what you all think of Violet Smith! If people are interested in me continuing, I have some excellent ideas for a twisty, juicy plot that will turn you on your head and back again. And fyi, the POV will switch between Violet and Sherlock. I want to get into both their heads. Thank you!**


	2. Between Scylla and Charybdis

**A/N: I'm a bit shocked at the excellent reception. And delighted, of course. Big thanks to Lothelen, elbafo, hatondog, 88dragon06, mrspencil, and EmmaB for reviewing. I now have the basic synopsis written out, and I have to warn you that I will be taking liberties with the timeline. The basic events will be the same, but the "when" will change a bit, to give more room for realistic relationship development. **

**Also, this is going to sound ridiculous considering it has nothing to do with **_**Sherlock**_**, but Happy 74****th**** Birthday, John Lennon. Wish you were still around making music. Listen to something of his today if you have the chance. I'd recommend "Watching the Wheels". It's one of my favorite songs. **

**Disclaimer: I don't own _Sherlock _or the original story "The Solitary Cyclist". **

**Chapter 2: Between Scylla and Charybdis **

* * *

><p><em>"And yet without a harshness which was foreign to his nature it was impossible to refuse to listen to the story of the young and beautiful woman, tall, graceful, and queenly…"<em>

_-John Watson, "The Solitary Cyclist"_

Violet had almost managed to delude herself into forgetting her predicament until Carol dropped a stack of papers on her bed and plopped herself down with them one morning. Violet took one look at the first headline and promptly burnt her scalp with her straightening iron, following up her hiss of pain with a couple of choice expletives that made Carol grin.

"Oooh, someone's in a bad mood. Why the long face? I thought you had a date."

"Fuck the date," Violet hissed, forgetting that only half of her hair was straight in favor of examining the rest of the papers. Headlines like _Criminal Mastermind Breaks Into Pentonville Prison, Tower of London, and Bank of England _and _Amateur Detective Called as Chief Witness for Moriarty Trial_ immediately caught her eye, the latter accompanied by a choice photo of Sherlock Holmes in his customary deerstalker. Violet groaned and buried her head in the hands. She was too stressed to handle an unexpected magnificent cheekbone assault _and _news that she actually would have to speak with the man in possession of such sinfully perfect bone structure on the same day.

"Hey, isn't that the detective you're always stalking?" Carol asked, squinting at Sherlock Holmes' photo. "Man, he is cute. If you ever get to interview him, set me up."

Violet choked a bitter laugh at ever-oblivious Carol's unexpected wave of psychic powers. Since her meeting with Woodley she had nearly managed to convince herself that Magnussen had gotten his information wrong, and Moriarty wasn't actually about to return and get himself arrested. She should have known a business tycoon like him would never be ill informed about such an ample opportunity.

"I don't like him because he's cute. I like him because he seems smart. And I don't _stalk _him," Violet protested. She hadn't informed Carol of her problem. Keeping her as much in the dark as possible about her job was safer for both of them. And appreciating a man's magnificent bone structure was different from liking him only for something as superficial as "cuteness". Violet did like to think she wasn't quite so shallow. Though she certainly wasn't about to begrudge herself the occasional fantasy, especially since Sherlock Holmes was rather more appealing than the dumb-as-a-rock sporty types she usually got set up with. Hence abandoning her attempt at a date later that day.

"Oh, yes, he's one of those bookish types, huh?" said Carol thoughtfully. "You should try and date him. I bet he likes the geeky ones. And y'know, intellectual guys like that don't really care about looks as much, so you might have a better chance. Not that you aren't pretty and all, but y'know—"

"Thanks Carol," said Violet, barely restraining an eye-roll as she perused the paper for more information on the trial.

"Yeah, you know me. I like cheering you up," Carol beamed. "You'd really have better luck if put in a bit more of an effort though, y'know. Like, you wear hardly any makeup, Vi. Let's face it: What guy is going to look past someone who actually puts work into how they look in favor of someone like you?"

"People who actually want an intellectual bond in a relationship," Violet retorted. "Look Carol, I'm actually going to have to attend this trial and interview Sherlock Holmes, and if you're nice to me I might let you make me up for that, okay?"

"What?" Carol squealed, leaping off the bed in her excitement. "Vi, why the hell didn't you tell me? When did you even find out? You get to meet and interview your celebrity crush! Why do you get all the luck?"

"I found out about Moriarty a couple days ago. My boss gets early access to information like this. But interviewing Sherlock Holmes is going to be a bit more complicated than simply meeting my celebrity crush. If I don't play my cards absolutely perfectly, he's going dismiss me outright, and I can't just…Carol, are you even listening?"

"Huh?" Carol was too busy appraisingly eyeing Jim Moriarty's McCartney-esque puppy dog eyes to pay her any mind. Violet sighed, wondering how anyone could ever think she had any luck at all. She was too scared of Magnussen to enter a relationship, had one of the most pitiful social lives in history, and was imprisoned in the job from hell by a tyrannical master blackmailer. And now she got to make a fool of herself in front of an immensely judgmental man she greatly admired. Yeah, really fucking lucky.

"Never mind," Violet sighed. "Get out of my room. I need to prepare."

"Touchy, touchy," Carol said, raising her hands in surrender and leaping off the bed, sending her perfectly flat carrot-colored hair in a dramatic swing. "You have, like, a week for that. Why stress now?"

"Because if I don't secure an interview with Sherlock Holmes—And believe me, I will not—My boss is both going to fire me and ensure that I will never find another journalism job again by dragging my name through the mud," Violet muttered under her breath. "Out, Carol. I seriously need space."

Carol stalked out, leaving Violet to stare morosely at the papers on her bed and mull over her situation. A week. Seven days until her life was officially over. And there wasn't anything she could do about it.

* * *

><p>Violet was panicking, blind to the din of the other reporters milling about in favor of searching desperately for a flash of Sherlock Holmes' signature dark curls while halfway hoping she didn't spot them. She was already regretting refusing Carol's offer to fix her up a bit, as she was sweating fretfully and probably looked like a walking tomato by this point. Before actually working up the courage to leave the house, she had foolishly thought appearing as wholesome as possible was a good idea. Or at least not like the type to have an affair with a married man, especially since the types who attended events like this were always keen to sneer on anyone they deemed less than professional. She was ruing her decision now, as her high-collared shirt was itching terribly, as were the tights in place of her usual stockings. And Violet felt so <em>naked <em>without even a touch of mascara to protect her from the evils of the world. Her strategy to take all her masks off for Sherlock Holmes was starting to seem less brilliant and more foolish.

Lost in increasingly bleak thoughts, Violet almost missed the tell tale flop of curls emerging from the men's restroom. She snapped back into attention just in time to see Sherlock Holmes' retreating head, and shot in his direction without a second thought, feeling awkwardly prim and stuffy without her usual heels and bright dresses as her armor. After barreling into a petite redhead with a world-class scowl on her face (Violet didn't bother to apologize), Holmes' expensively suited back came into view. Her desperate cry burst free from her lungs before she could think better of it.

"Mr. Holmes?"

Sherlock Holmes turned and stared straight through her.

* * *

><p>Sherlock was in a foul mood by the time he finally managed to shake himself free of that vile Riley woman's talons. Types like that—The ones who pretended they found him interesting, didn't openly judge him when he committed some social faux pas, and treated him like a human being only to turn around and humiliate him for being such a freak—were utterly disgusting. Kitty Riley was particularly repulsive, with her ugly low-cut button down and "look at how innocent I am" pigtails. And John may have tsked at him if he'd witnessed the encounter, but Sherlock wasn't going to feel guilty. He was not about to allow himself to be used by such an ignoramus, and he certainly wasn't going to feign politeness for someone so pointlessly intrusive. Journalists were all the same.<p>

The jury members and reporters alike parted seamlessly as he made his way through with perfected icy indifference, some smiling, others eyeing him suspiciously. Sherlock ignored them, until a sharp voice made itself known.

"Mr. Holmes?" He turned, and was confronted with the sight of a young woman with a head of curling dark hair, armed with a messenger bag and an awkward slouch that reminded Sherlock of himself at fifteen, back when he actually cared what idiots thought of him. He took in her every detail in a matter of seconds, from the smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose to her wide, warm brown eyes. Journalist, and not new to the job. Difficult boss, and a lot resting on securing an interview with him, if the fear in those eyes was anything to go by. And there was something distinctly familiar about those features.

"I'm sorry to keep you," said the woman, standing a little straighter and managing to raise her head. Sherlock mentally added 'intelligent' to his list of gathered characteristics. There was a certain sharpness lingering beneath those guileless eyes reminiscent to a lesser extent of what he saw when he looked in the mirror himself. "I'm Violet Smith. I work with CAM Global News. I was wondering if I could have a word with you?"

Sherlock scanned her face again, trying to decide where he'd seen her before. He brightened when he managed to place her. It would seem google-ing himself hadn't been quite as ridiculous as John had thought.

"Oh, yes, you're the one with the strong moral principles," he said, wrinkling his nose in supreme disinterest. "Interested in me and my work, which would be a motivator for Magnussen to send you to speak with me as opposed to someone more experienced with interviews. Superiority complex, I'd assume, though it would be natural to seek some sort of validation when working for a boss like him. And of course his men forced you here to attempt to speak with me with the threat of firing you and spoiling your reputation if you fail. How dramatic," he sniffed. Violet, to his surprise, didn't flinch at his brutal honesty. Apparently she hadn't been harboring any delusions about successfully concealing her identity and intentions, unlike Kitty Riley. Curious.

"That is what is at stake," she said. "I was planning on telling you anyway, so I'm afraid I can't give you a shocked or horrified reaction, Mr. Holmes. I would add that I need to provide for my mother and losing my job would be extremely inconvenient, but it wouldn't do anything to ingratiate my cause to you, so I won't bother."

"No, it certainly wouldn't," Sherlock said, still searching that face for any and all clues to further take her apart.

She was definitely desperate, though she was doing a good job of hiding it. And she was struggling with both a desire to impress him and the knowledge that nothing she could do would achieve such a feat. Definitely a fan, if the fact that she wrote only about him was anything to go by. To be fair, her writing was somewhat above the usual tripe spewed by Magnussen's writers (though he obviously couldn't make it clear he'd read some of her articles). Her style was more syntactically sophisticated than the shite typically spread all over the news. At least she attempted to maintain whatever modicum of intellectual integrity she possessed, though it no doubt wasn't particularly impressive to begin with, given the average IQ of the population.

"Please, Mr. Holmes. I won't deny that my motives are entirely selfish, but I'm urging you to at least consider. I'm between Scylla and Charybdis and there's nothing I can do about it except appeal to you," Violet implored, eyes even wider than before. Sherlock didn't know if it was intentional or not, but the general _largeness _of them was distinctly disconcerting. John certainly would be falling all over himself to impress this doe-eyed female within seconds. But he, of course, was not John. And he did _not _get taken aback by any members of the "fairer" sex, doe-eyed or not.

"So you decided not to lie or put on any pretenses, knowing they wouldn't fool me or increase your chances of securing your interview. A better attempt than most. But there is always something I can see through, Miss Smith. I don't fraternize with journalist types, especially if they are working for men like Magnussen," he said coldly, fixing her with his most penetrating stare.

Violet Smith, to his further surprise, did not cower. But there was definitely a further tightening in her face that could only be panic. She still managed to keep her voice even when she responded, a feat he couldn't help but find slightly impressive. Molly became incapable of coherent speech when he so much as glanced her way, though she had been improving as of late.

"I wouldn't either, if I were you. But that isn't going to stop me from trying," she continued bravely. "Mr. Holmes, I know Magnussen's reputation precedes him, and that you don't associate with paparazzi and journalists anyway, but I can't just give up. If I could, I would. But I'm under his thumb and there's nothing I can do about it. Could you at least consider—"

"What is he using against you?" Sherlock interjected coldly. "Wait—" He held up a hand, halting her opening mouth. "Don't tell me."

Violet just crossed her arms and stared at him expectantly, and he let his eyes wander down her figure, putting together a story with every loose thread and miniscule stain. There were red lines on the flash of throat exposed above the collar of her cherry-print blouse from excessive scratching. She was unused to wearing such a modest design. The slight uncomfortable slouch of her posture could be from wearing flats instead of heels, and he had noticed her discreetly itching one leg with her opposite foot several times. She usually wore stockings instead of tights. Her one-karat diamond earrings were slightly tarnished—she hadn't taken good care of them, but they weren't worn frequently enough to truly suffer from her lack of attention. And yet, the rest of her clothes were meticulously cared for, ironed and still vibrantly colored despite the fact that they were at least two years old. She usually dressed less demurely, but was attempting to put up a front since it was a public event and she feared judgment. She was promiscuous in the past, then. The earrings were most likely a gift from an old lover she wanted no memories of, and she was only wearing them to blend in with the rest of the relatively wealthier reporters that typically attended events such as this. Again, a fear of judgment. Add in the fact that Magnussen would have more to go on if the man was married, and Sherlock had her pressure point.

"I assume it would be your services as a mistress to a married man prior to your employment under Magnussen," he said, relishing the crackle of fear in her eyes. She still didn't flounder completely.

"Yes, that would be it," she said, still looking straight at him. "Harvey Carruthers. I also acted as a tutor in music for his daughter. It went against everything I stand for. If my readership were to find out, they would be furious. I've garnered a bit of a reputation as the nice girl."

The last part was surprisingly bitter. Violet Smith was obviously carrying a buried resentment for her reputation as a "nice girl", regardless if that was what she'd been seeking within CAM Global Network.

"How else is he manipulating you?" Sherlock interjected, uninterested in hearing about her past trysts now that he'd successfully deduced Magnussen's ammunition against her. "There's clearly a more selfish motivator in there somewhere. Everything about you screams guilty."

Well, perhaps that was a bit of an exaggeration. But Violet winced, mouth twisting into a sheepish grimace.

"He pays me very well," she confessed, looking almost like she feared some moral verdict from him. Ha. Sherlock had better things to do than judge the idiots of the world for their constant crossings of ethics. Much simpler to forsake it all entirely in favor of logic.

"Ah yes," he said, "He makes you as dependent on him for support as possible. Even if you wanted to break away, you would have a difficult job working up the resolve."

"You underestimate me, Mr. Holmes," Violet snapped, eyes flashing for the first time. Sherlock raised an eyebrow. It would appear he'd finally pushed a button. "I've been wasting my life away under that eel's thumb for two years now, and if I ever got even the smallest chance to break free, I would, regardless of the consequences. But I have people I care about and will do anything to help, something you can't understand."

Oh, and there was his button pushed. Sherlock could practically feel his extra mask slide into the place, the one that allowed him to be as cruel as possible to protect any vulnerability. She had stumbled upon the wrong weak spot, albeit accidentally. But Violet Smith seemed to realize her mistake instantaneously, or at least realize that she was about to be verbally skewered.

"Oh, God, I'm sorry, that was horribly out of line," she said quickly, looking genuinely remorseful. And…concerned? But that wasn't supposed to happen. He was far too practiced at hiding his emotions, and he'd put up with hurled cries of every insult imaginable without giving his opponents any indication they had managed to breach his defenses. Except for John, of course. John was the exception. This girl was most certainly _not_.

"No, really, I'm sorry," repeated Violet earnestly. "I didn't mean to hurt…" She caught sight of his darkening expression, "…my chances of getting an interview. I suppose I'm royally fucked, now."

"Mmm, not sure if there are any royals available for service," Sherlock said, "But I could speak with my brother on your behalf." He couldn't help noting with small respect that she caught on rather quickly. Her hasty correction had flowed incredibly smoothly. He added _practiced liar _to his list of deductions. But she definitely was not lying to him, a fact that was becoming more curious by the second.

Violet smiled. It seemed much more real than Kitty Riley's slimy smirk.

"Thank you for the consideration, but I would prefer to continue speaking with you on my behalf, Mr. Holmes, if I haven't completely messed up whatever non-existent chance I had from the get go," she said, peering up at him. "But I can see that would be foolishly optimistic of me. Goodbye, Mr. Holmes, and thank you for your time. Good luck with your testimony."

She had spun on one flat and was trotting in the opposite direction before he could even open his mouth. And Sherlock was now confused as well as curious, an exceptionally rare combination. Had he committed some grievous social faux pas to alienate her so quickly? Would John be shaking his head at this very moment? He didn't think he'd done anything particularly offensive. She'd brought that plan to an abrupt halt. So why was she leaving so suddenly? And yes, he certainly didn't enjoy talking to journalists, somewhat intriguing or not, but he was baffled now, and bafflement was _not _an acceptable emotion for the world's only consulting detective to experience.

"Miss Smith," he called, wincing a second later at what almost sounded like desperation. How had that damned girl managed to mess with him in such a short amount of time? He corrected the issue immediately when she turned, those stupid eyes wide with foolish hope. So her plan had been to both submit to his superior mind by taking down all her barriers and then leave while she was ahead, thereby initiating an involuntary response to seek further information. Clever girl. "I believe I didn't give consent or dissent to your proposal," he said, snapping back into his usual aloofness instantly.

"So I noticed," said Violet, raising a skeptical eyebrow. "Does that mean you're open to scheduling an interview?"

"It would depend on what the interview—and the article that will inevitably follow—entails," Sherlock replied carefully, searching her for some hidden sign of malicious intent. It was tediously easy to spot, and he'd been exposed to a lot of it. But there was nothing except sparkling intrigue in Violet Smith's face.

"I've been given no rules on what to write, so I'm not constrained by Magnussen's usual quality standards," Violet answered just as cautiously. "No gossip, no misquotes, no words taken out of context. I was thinking of just discussing your work and trying to find a way to bring it down to a level understandable by the average civilian."

"Why would I want to explain my work to idiots? I don't give a damn if they understand what I do so long as they stay out of my way and let me do it," Sherlock snapped, growing even colder to her idea of an "interview". Violet struggled with herself for a moment before giving into the temptation to roll her eyes.

"Yes, I thought you'd say that. The thing is, those idiots are going to get in your way more if you continue to make it out like what you do is so far above them. Maybe it is, but they'll stay curious and keep prying anyway. You just called after me because you wanted more information. They're the same." She grimaced when she saw his scowl, but soldiered on bravely. "Perhaps that wasn't the best example. But the point still stands. And eventually, that curiosity is going to turn into resentment, and all those people—" She gestured vaguely to the jury members and reporters still milling about, though the crowd had begun to dissipate. He'd have to hurry if he wanted to be on time. "—can actually make your life pretty difficult."

"They haven't so far," Sherlock said, though it was a lie. Resentment—from teachers, public school bullies, tittering girls, Mycroft, the sorry excuses for detectives at the New Scotland Yard—certainly put up its barriers. Violet looked skeptical.

"I may not be as sharp as you, Mr. Holmes," she said, quirking a brow in a most worrisome manner, "But I lie often enough myself to spot it in other people. My thought was—"

"Better not to have them at all, if you aren't capable of expressing any of worth," muttered Sherlock. Violet ignored him.

"If I can speak to you about what it is you do, I'll be able to both present your work in your own words and make it more relatable to all those idiots. It may seem pointless now, but perhaps you'll find it useful at some point in the future. You could think of it as a free investment. It may not do anything, but it won't cost you and all that can come out of it is good," she shrugged. "Nothing personal, and nothing that could spoil your own reputation, if you were worrying."

Sherlock's eyes had narrowed once more.

"I don't underestimate Magnussen's ability to ruin lives," he said.

"I know you don't," said Violet patiently, "and I can't promise that he won't twist this situation for his own benefit. But I'll do everything in my power to keep him from doing anything that could hurt you and your work, if it means anything to you." She was gazing at him imploringly again. Sherlock's scowl deepened.

"Your promises mean nothing to me," he spat. Stupid people with their stupid false words and pitiful attempts at sugarcoating what they really wanted: To find those weaknesses and stab straight though them. But he was too strong for poor, browbeaten Violet Smith, who looked like she had just wilted.

"Oh." There was something in her face very reminiscent of Mummy when she was disappointed in him that almost made him feel _guilty. _But the illusion faded, and Violet Smith was back to being a sad, lonely girl in an impossible predicament. "Okay. I won't say I understand, because I probably don't. Sorry for wasting your time."

Ah, there was a streak of passive-aggressiveness there that once again brought his mother to mind, with all of her careful implications of how he was hurting her with his inconsideration for anyone he thought below himself. Stupid Violet Smith, going and acting like his mother when he finally had her figured out.

"Yes, that would be wise," he said, ignoring the worm of guilt squirming inside him.

"But I'm going to give you my number anyway," she continued, withdrawing an old receipt from her bag along with a pen. "Just in case you change your mind. And because I need something to be hopeful about."

She passed him the slip of paper and was gone, leaving him staring after her once more. She was much more tolerable from a distance. Just another face in the crowd, though the number in his hand was an easy reminder of what she desperately needed. It smelled faintly of almond and vanilla, no doubt from coming into contact with her hand lotion. Violet had probably intended it that way. He'd feel that guilt again later when he stumbled across the receipt, and the chances of calling her would become all more likely.

But there was another, more John-ish voice, insisting he was over thinking things yet again. That poor Violet Smith was just another idiot he was assigning ulterior motives to as a way of channeling his stress into something other than Moriarty's return. Sherlock shook the thought from his mind, resolving to throw away the receipt right then and there. But his hand worked of its own accord, slipping it into his jacket pocket without crumbling it.

"Sherlock! Sherlock, what are you doing standing there? You're going to be late." It took him far longer than usual to register John's voice. He shook himself back into the world of the living, sliding back into his usual armor instantly. It was time.

* * *

><p>Violet couldn't believe she actually had managed to pull it off. Sherlock Holmes had been even more magnificent in person, with those <em>eyes <em>and _curls, _and the temptation to do something embarrassing like blush or faint, or (God forbid) _squeal _had been overwhelming. After all, who knew if she going to brush shoulders with the world's only consulting detective again? Slipping into her seat in the courtroom when she wanted to be outside skipping and giggling was difficult. Violet was sure she was radiating some kind of joyful energy, glowing with the wonder of her success. She wasn't even stressed about how late she was for the trial itself, as she'd been in the bathroom splashing cold water on her face and making sure she wasn't red as the cherries on her blouse. A couple people did glare, and she sneered right back at the grumpy journalist she'd brushed shoulders with before, who looked ridiculous with her two red pigtails, but otherwise settled in mostly unnoticed.

Of course, the fact she'd succeeded didn't mean anything at all, because now she had a whole new meeting to stress over. An interview! With one of the smartest men alive, who definitely wouldn't be afraid to leave if she asked anything he considered stupid. Oh, God, she had leapt straight out of the frying pan and into the fire. And to think she'd been giggling to herself not ten minutes prior. Violet fiddled nervously with the seams of her skirt, already tallying just how much time Woodley was likely to give her before the interview. The biggest interview of her career. She'd have to think of questions, and then work on wording them in the least offensive manner, and oh God, she couldn't handle this sort of stress. She was even more screwed now than she'd been from the start. She'd have to call Woodley of course, once Sherlock called (if he did!) to tell him she'd succeeded, and Janine would want to know everything as well…

"James Moriarty isn't a man at all. He's a spider; a spider at the centre of a web—a criminal web with a thousand threads and he knows precisely how each and every single one of them dances."

Violet's attention snapped back to Sherlock Holmes in an instant, and moved again to the spider himself. He was undeniably good looking—a comparison to a puppy that had no qualms about shredding everything in sight came to mind—but she wasn't stupid enough to not notice the danger in that seemingly cute face. It was most noticeable in the working of his jaw over a piece of gum. Violet was struck with an uncanny feeling James Moriarty was imagining chewing the throat of Britain itself. She shuddered, turning back to her thoughts of how she was going to relay the tale to Janine after the trial.

"How long have I known him? Not really your best line of inquiry," Sherlock said sarcastically from the podium, initiating frowns from both barrister and judge. "We met twice; five minutes in total. I pulled a gun, he tried to blow me up. I felt we had a special something."

Violet choked a laugh that echoed embarrassingly in the softly tittering courtroom, earning judgmental glances from several crusty jury members. Sherlock Holmes' eyes found her, and her whole face was on fire, though her smile didn't quite manage to fade. And was that a smile of his own lurking in those impossibly translucent eyes? God, he was gorgeous. It was a wonder she'd managed to do something other than stand and stutter when she'd spoken with him. Though he really needed to slow down with the smart-arsery, even if it was earned. The judge was looking increasingly annoyed.

She needed to leave and call Janine. She couldn't concentrate anyway, not when she had so much to _plan. _ Violet rose to her feet, nearly trembling with increased nerves. She fumbled for her purse, wincing when it dropped from her seat and clattered as the buckles collided with the floor, earning more mild glares from the surrounding audience. Violet made an effort to keep her head high, extracting herself from the room without so much as a backward glance at Sherlock Holmes.

The second she was outside, her phone was in her hand. Janine picked up immediately.

"Violet? What's wrong? Oh my God, the trial was today, wasn't it? I'm so sorry, I was meaning to call you—"

"Janine," Violet interrupted, voice cracking in a clashing of nerves and euphoria. "I think I might have done it. I spoke to him, and I managed to give him my number."

"Spill," said Janine immediately. "He didn't say anything rude?"

"Oh, no, he did," said Violet happily, temporarily forgetting the imminent stress of awaiting a call that may never come in favor of relaying her success to such an eager audience. "He deduced the thing with Carruthers in an instant. It was absolutely incredible, Janine. I could actually see how quickly and how hard he was thinking. But I didn't get offended, and I didn't lie."

"Good girl," said Janine proudly. "Didn't I tell you it would be alright?"

"Yes, you did," Violet said, collapsing on a nearby bench and swinging her legs cheerily. She felt like she was floating on a cloud. "Once I got him a little warmer to the idea, I left. Stopping while I was ahead, right? And he called after me! He called after me! So I gave him my number, and now I just have to wait and see if he calls. Of course, he may not." She squinted at the grey sky nervously, the worry washing over her once more. "Oh, God, I probably misinterpreted the entire situation. I bet he won't call. He probably already threw out my number. Why do I always have to be so naïve?"

"Wait," said Janine warily, "A second ago you were over the moon, now you're panicking. I can hear it in your voice. Don't worry. He'll call."

"No, he won't," wailed Violet, doom-laden once more. "Oh no, I'll have to tell Woodley, won't I? He'll be furious at me for not securing a time and date right then and there. But I didn't want to push Sherlock! He hates the pushy ones, you can just tell. Woodley will probably tell Magnussen, and then _he'll _be furious at me too and drag my reputation through the mud in retaliation so I can't find any work and my mum will hate me for not being able to pay for her care and I won't have a place to live because I'll have no money and I'll probably end up starving on the streets. And it will all be Sherlock Holmes' fault!"

"Slow down. None of that is going to happen," Janine said calmly, paying no mind to Violet's sniffles. "Now, give it a week to see if he calls. I'll talk to Woodley on your behalf to stall. And if Sherlock doesn't call, we'll take it from there."

"But Janine!" Violet exclaimed, shocked out of her panic. "Woodley is absolutely odious! You can't go through that."

"I can and I will," said Janine firmly. "And you'll owe me big time, if your stories are anything to go by. You can start making it up to me in advance by not throwing an unnecessary tantrum. I love you, Vi, but I have no energy for your drama at the moment."

"Sorry," Violet said meekly, wiping her eyes. "I'm being stupid."

"Yes, you are," Janine agreed. "Now, what are you going to do to keep yourself occupied? You are completely intolerable unless you have something to do."

"I'll have to plan the interview," Violet said, more to herself than to Janine. "I can do that."

"Yes, you can. I have to go now," Janine said in a soothing voice one might use to comfort a crying child. "You made it past the first hurdle, Vi. I'm really happy for you. Don't stress yourself unnecessarily, yeah? You underestimate your own cleverness."

She hung up. Violet scoffed, stuffing her phone in her purse and pouting.

"Clever. That's a good one."

She steeled herself, knowing Janine was right. If she panicked now, it would only get worse as time went on. She'd just have to keep herself busy and not fall into a depression while she waited for the call. He would. He had to. She rose to her feet, knees nearly buckling. The fate of her career was resting in Sherlock Holmes' notably uncaring hands. And all she could do was wonder whether or not he still had her number in his pocket.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: There! Violet has now met Sherlock. The romance won't be particularly slow, though they won't be madly in love within ten chapters either. Hope everything met your expectations. Remember, the timeline will be stretched a bit to give more room for Violet and Sherlock's relationship to develop but the main plot **_**will **_**stay the same (albeit with a couple of twists of my own). Please review! And listen to some Beatles today if you have the chance. **


	3. Of Deduction and Deletion

**A/N: Sorry the update took so long, but I can't promise the next one will be any more timely. I'm studying like crazy to get my GED and fanfiction isn't at the top of my priority list. I'll be starting a couple of undergrad classes in January too, which is going to suck up even more time. I just took my placement tests and on the bright side, I'm eligible for the honors program in whatever English class I end up taking, which will hopefully lead to better options when I transfer for grad school. On the downside, honors is hard work, and that means less recreational writing time. ****Anyway, I did all the editing on this today and I'm a little woozy. I just had my wisdom teeth out and the painkillers are making everything fuzzy, but who am I to ignore a surge of inspiration? Huge thanks to my lovely reviewers. Your encouragement means the world to me.**

**Disclaimer: New day, same disclaimer.**

**Chapter 3: Of Deduction and Deletion**

* * *

><p>Sherlock was pacing. Snatches of the day—the trial, Kitty Riley and annoyingly compelling Violet Smith, the odd prickle down his spine when he felt Moriarty's eyes on him through the cell wall—were actually <em>disjointed<em>, almost as if he were tired, which was ridiculous, of course, because he was never tired this early in a case; if this sudden Moriarty-triggered upheaval in his and John's normal routine could even be classified as that. He kept talking anyway, if only to keep John's eyes, so dull when it came to the slightest of details but so sharp when Sherlock's health was concerned, occupied.

"If Moriarty wanted the Jewels, he'd have them. If he wanted those prisoners free, they'd be out on the streets. The only reason he's still in a prison cell right now is because he chose to be there." John's face flickered in the way it always did when he was worried. Sherlock's eyes remained fixed on the mirror. His hand slipped into his jacket pocket of its own accord, absently fingering Violet Smith's number. "Somehow, this is part of his scheme."

"What's that you've got there?" asked John. Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "In your pocket. You're fiddling with something in your pocket. You're not smoking again, are you? I know the stress is probably a bit much right now, Sherlock, but there are better—"

"Honestly, John, your observational skills dwindle further with each passing day," snapped Sherlock. He ignored the comment about stress entirely, not wanting to give John the satisfaction of seeing he was right. It would have been easier if those prisoners were out on the streets and Moriarty had a crown to wear with his Westwood than this _lull _in whatever greater scheme he was surely hatching. In some cases, predictable was better—safer. "Had I been carrying a pack of cigarettes, you would have noticed the square-shaped bulge through the material. It is far more likely I'm preoccupying myself by fiddling with a ball of lint."

"Ah, of course," said John, still eyeing him curiously. "I should have seen that. Seriously though, what is it? You never fiddle with anything unless you consider it to be of importance."

Sherlock scowled.

"A journalist gave me her phone number before the trial, if you must know. She was hoping for an interview that would bring my work to the public's level. Seemed to think it would be a good investment on my part. Of course, the fact that she was being threatened with the inability to find work if she didn't secure an interview with me was a factor—"

"And you actually kept her number? She must have gotten under your skin," John said with a secretive little smile Sherlock did _not _like. "Actually, I think you should take her up on it. It sounds like an excellent idea to me."

"Far too busy for an interview, John, even if I did wish to speak to an idiot for an extended period of time," Sherlock said with a blasé wave of hand.

"No, listen to me," John continued, having none of it. "I've spoken to you about this before. A media backlash will come, and it will be swift and effective, especially considering your behavior at the trial. And it's making me nervous, Moriarty resurfacing just when you've started to rise to fame. This journalist has a point with it being a good investment. If you liked her enough to keep her number—don't deny it, Sherlock, I _know _you—she's probably a good candidate for writing a piece on you. It's always a good thing to control how you're seen by the media, if you can."

Sherlock didn't respond. Kitty Riley's hideous red pigtails were suddenly present in his mind's eye, along with the immediately discarded card she'd attempted to slip into his pocket. _Sooner or later you're gonna need someone on your side. Someone to set the record straight. _And there was Violet Smith, obnoxiously rational: _And eventually, that curiosity is going to turn into resentment, and all those people can make your life pretty difficult. _Perhaps John had a point.

"What's her name?"

It took him a second to register John's question. When he did, he turned. John was looking up at him imploringly.

"Violet Smith," answered Sherlock, "She writes for CAM Global News." John's face twisted into a scowl, and Sherlock elaborated hastily. "Not by her own choice. She was blackmailed into it. And apparently she's been given permission to write whatever she pleases about me." Now, where had that come from? Why the hell had he felt the need to defend Violet Smith to John?

"Violet Smith," John repeated, a sneer still lingering on his lips. "Why does that name sound familiar?"

"She's the one who's written about me before. She did the article on the conditions in Baskerville."

"Ah. Well, she's definitely a good candidate," John said, brightening considerably at this information. "She certainly writes sharply enough. You really should call her, Sherlock. As a precaution. It would be good to get some more positive press out. I'm sure someone will write about the trial soon enough, and you'll want to combat that."

"Fine," Sherlock conceded. "I'll call her. If only because of the trial."

"Of course," said John comfortably. "If only because of the trial."

* * *

><p>Violet was curled on her and Carol's ratty couch with a pint of slow-churned moose tracks to bury her stress in and a list of potential interview questions when her phone rang. Thinking it was Janine again, or even worse, <em>Woodley<em>, she tried to ignore it. Her curiosity got the better of her, and when checking the screen revealed an unknown number, she nearly choked on a peanut butter cup. Telling herself firmly that it was _not _Sherlock Holmes because there was no way in hell Sherlock could ever consider her important enough to contact so promptly, she picked up.

"Violet Smith." There was no question in the rumbling baritone on the other end. Violet's heart froze.

"Sherlock Holmes," she said, fighting to keep her voice even and desperately hoping he couldn't tell from the slight tremor she couldn't control that she was currently warding off a whirlwind of panic by overdosing on ice cream. "I'm surprised you contacted me so quickly."

"I wasn't planning to," said Sherlock Holmes, "but upon further reflection on the situation, I decided it would be prudent to contact someone somewhat trustworthy and plan an interview to fight the backlash before it begins. Your point about the public turning due to ignorance has some merit."

"Somewhat trustworthy," repeated Violet, fighting to come off as a cool, collected professional. "I'm flattered, Mr. Holmes. Did you have a time in mind for said interview?"

There was a brief pause in which Violet heard a muffled Sherlock shout for John Watson and wait for a response.

"As soon as possible," he said when he had finished speaking to his flatmate. "Tomorrow, if you can manage. Before the case is closed would be ideal."

"As soon as possible works well for me too," Violet said happily, curling her toes over the edge of the coffee table and feeling rather like a teenager on the phone with her crush for the first time. "I will have to contact Magnussen's people, or risk them punishing me for keeping them in the dark. They always have a way of knowing. And for optimum privacy, conducting it in my flat is probably the best option, short of leaving the city entirely. He has a terrible habit of sticking his greasy nose in all sorts of seemingly secretive places. And I'll have to check everything for bugging—It's been a while since any of his people have been in, but it's always good to look twice. I'll have to tell Carol to leave as well, and Pool Boy if he's here, and I was thinking not recording would be a better idea since I have a pretty good memory and it's better to not have anything solid Magnussen could get his hands on—"

"Of course," Sherlock interjected, sounding amused. Violet stuttered to an abrupt halt, realizing that she'd been rambling again—thinking aloud, as her mum had always put it before telling her firmly to stuff it. "I believe you deserve a warning that if you ask anything unnecessary or stupid, I won't hesitate to tell you or leave. And if you publish anything without having me read over it first and give explicit permission, I think you'll find that I have just as many tricks up my sleeve as Magnussen when it comes to wreaking havoc on lives, albeit through different methods."

"I assumed as much," said Violet bravely, fighting back an audible gulp. "And what time would work best for you tomorrow, Mr. Holmes?"

"Sherlock, please," said Sherlock without the kindness that customarily came with establishing a first-name basis, "This whole process will be tedious enough without pointless formalities to further bog it down. I'll be at your flat at eleven a.m. sharp. Be ready."

"You'll need my address—" Violet began, but the click on the other end told her Sherlock Holmes had hung up. Oh, well. She'd just have to trust that he had his ways of finding where she lived.

Violet set her ice cream to the side, suddenly having lost her appetite. The list of interview questions now seemed juvenile and foolish. Would Sherlock (not mentally adding the 'Holmes' was difficult) just scoff at her if she used it tomorrow like she was a child who could only pass open-note tests? And yet, Violet also had the feeling he'd be able to tell if she was merely reciting a list, and she knew instinctively that it would bore him. Did she dare wing it? The mere thought was terrifying, and yet…Sherlock's antics certainly suggested he had an appreciation for spontaneity. Violet made up her mind with an affirming nod and got to her feet.

"Carol? Any chance you can go out tomorrow?" she called. "I have something important I have to do here. Alone."

"What is it?" Carol shouted back, the noise of the running shower obscuring her voice.

"An interview," said Violet, a tremor going down her spine just by saying it.

"Oh, cool. With who?"

"Sherlock Holmes."

There was a muffled cry of shock from the bathroom, and Carol emerged a moment later, wrapped in a towel and dripping all over the floor. Her arms immediately flew around Violet's neck, gifting Violet with an uncomfortably close view of Carol's sopping, hibiscus-scented hair.

"Oh, Vi, I'm so happy for you," she squealed, sending Violet's ear throbbing. "You've liked him forever. And he's coming over here tomorrow? He's practically a celebrity. This is for the paper you write for, right? Will you be getting paid?"

"Yes, I'll be getting paid," said Violet wearily. "But Sherlock is notably testy, so it would be best if it were just him and me tomorrow, okay? Can you find something to do?"

"Just you and him. I've got you," said Carol with a saucy wink. "I'll call up Pool Boy tomorrow and have him take me out for lunch. You'll have all the time you need for your detective."

"Carol, it isn't like that," Violet sighed. "Just an interview, nothing more. Would you mind helping me tidy up a bit tonight too? I doubt Sherlock Holmes will be impressed by your knickers hanging off the bathroom doorknob. And the rest of the flat isn't in much better shape." She cast a pointed glance at some questionably old Chinese takeaway and outdated catalogues scattered over the coffee table and the heap of dirty clothes strewn over the floor.

"Just this once," said Carol cheerily, "God knows I wouldn't want to fuck up your chances with the one and only Sherlock Holmes."

"It isn't like that," Violet repeated, but Carol had already gone to work with the table, leaving her to take care of the clothes. An hour later, and the living room alone was nearly pristine and looking quite classy, though most of the usual junk had just been shoved into the adjacent rooms. Violet figured it wasn't an issue, considering she was hardly going to give Sherlock a tour of the rest of the flat when he came the next day. When Carol had finally gone to bed, she collapsed on the newly crumb-free couch, dreading the last phone call she had to make. It took one recollection of poor Rachel Lesley's face on her last day at CAM Global News to give Violet the motivation she needed to grit her teeth and do what she had to do. She wasn't going to take any chances. Despite the relative lateness of the hour, Woodley picked up immediately.

"Ah, Violet. This is a lovely surprise," he said comfortably, the slime in his voice sending Violet awash with gooseflesh.

"I've secured an interview with Sherlock Holmes," she said shortly, in no mood for any bullshit. "Tomorrow at eleven a.m., my flat. Do _not _send anyone over to monitor or I _will _cancel, consequences be damned. Magnussen will get his article if he doesn't interfere."

"Violet, this is excellent news," said Woodley, his excitement making her nervous. "I'll inform Mr. Magnussen immediately. Though it is a bit of surprise you actually had the lack of foresight to tell me the location of the interview beforehand. You do realize you are making…interference…much easier?"

"Please," scoffed Violet, "You would have wormed all the details out of me with your usual threats in a matter of minutes if I'd tried to withhold information. At least in my flat, I have some control over who enters and leaves."

"Of course," said Woodley, unaffected. "Well, you must pardon me Violet. I do have work to attend to, after all. Have a pleasant evening."

"You too," said Violet grudgingly. She hated it when he made it out like she was purposefully vying for more of his time and attention. After hanging up, Violet grabbed her unfinished list of questions, crumpled them up into the smallest ball she could manage, and threw them away promptly. If she was going to brush noses with Sherlock Holmes once more, she was going to do it on basic instinct alone.

* * *

><p>The next morning came all too soon. Violet realized upon waking that there was another matter she had to consider; she had no idea what would be appropriate to wear. It was her home, after all, and wearing her work clothes for a casual in-flat interview seemed stuffy and overly formal. Then again, she couldn't exactly schlepp around in her fuzzy socks and tatty sleep shirt in front of the consulting detective. She'd had enough of wearing her pajamas in professional situations, thank you very much.<p>

Violet wanted to preoccupy herself with her appearance as long as possible, if only because taking too much time with the superficial parts of her preparation was easier than thinking about the monumental task she was about to tackle. And when she was completely fixed up, Violet fidgeted about in the areas of the flat that would be visible to Sherlock Holmes, trying desperately to distract herself from what now seemed like the incredibly stupid decision to not use notes. Checking for bugging was easy enough, given that her flat didn't have too many nooks and crannies to hide recording devices or cameras in. Violet was sure Carol would have called her out on being paranoid were she in the room, and speaking of Carol…

"I doubt Magnussen's bugging you." Violet startled violently and spun. Carol was casting her pale eyes over the visible corners of the flat, paying Violet little mind.

"Magnussen?" repeated Violet, confused and awash with prickling unease. She hadn't mentioned Magnussen to Carol. She'd been ridiculously careful not to. "How did you know I work for Magnussen?"

Carol fidgeted nervously.

"His men came by once. When you were out. It wouldn't have been hard to tell anyway, Vi. You're really jumpy about mentioning anything to do with your work, and I'm not _that _dim. But I checked myself, after they left. I don't think there's anything you need to worry about. I'm on my way out. Pool Boy's taking me to the deli for sandwiches. Normally I'd ask why we aren't going someplace nicer, but apparently he's broke. _Broke. _I always pick the worst ones._"_

Violet coughed discreetly, not daring to comment. She would have loved to conduct her interview at the old Italian deli just three blocks down from their flat, but she was taking the "eyes everywhere" mindset as seriously as she was able. This was safer. In any case, Carol should be counting her lucky stars. Pool Boy was definitely easier to deal with than Sherlock. And now she'd have to sit and wait on her own for a full fifteen minutes or more, since Sherlock was most certainly a busy man with better things to do than keep poor journalists from losing their jobs from hell.

The knock came at exactly eleven. Violet jerked from the couch, feet stuttering wildly beneath her as she approached the door. For a moment, she could only make her hand hover over the doorknob, not daring to actually turn it. Sherlock Holmes took the chance away from her. The door swung open, nearly knocking her in the eye and sending Violet wheeling back to the couch. Sherlock was standing in the doorway, framed impressively by his signature black coat. His eyes immediately dropped to her heels, which were halfway sunken by the shag carpet. Violet chewed her bottom lip nervously.

"I didn't know what would be appropriate," she blurted. "I've never done this in my flat before. Actually, I've only done this once or twice ever. Would you like to—?"

"I'll sit down," interjected Sherlock, not bothering to shrug off his coat before he swooped to the couch opposite her. The upturned collar made him all the more intimidating, something Violet was sure was intentional.

"Well, would you like something to eat, then?" At his raised brow, she continued defensively, "I'm just trying to be polite, Mr. Holmes—"

"Sherlock, please," Sherlock cut in once again.

"Vi?" Carol's voice came drifting up the stairwell. Violet's mouth opened and closed again. A steady thrum of panic was rising in her throat. Sherlock would not find Carol dashing into the middle of whatever was happening amusing in the slightest. Violet got to her feet again, intending on unleashing a few choice words on her.

"That's my flatmate," she told Sherlock through gritted teeth, "I _told _her to go out. I'm so terribly sorry, this'll just take a second."

"Violet," whined Carol, coming through the door with a scowl on her face. "He canceled on me! Pool Boy canceled on _me_! For fuck's sake, if he didn't have those crazy beautiful shoulders, I would have dumped him ages ago. He should be eternally grateful I considered him in the first place, not canceling on me. Honestly, I'm _so _angry right now…Oh." Her eyes fell on Sherlock. "Who's this?"

"Honestly, you don't even know the poor kid's name, Carol. I would certainly take offense to that. And this is Sherlock Holmes," said a thin-lipped Violet. "You know, the one I told you I was interviewing today? Sherlock, this is Carol."

Sherlock Holmes didn't say "pleasure" or "very nice to meet you". He examined Carol with eyes as thin as Violet's pursed lips until Carol got uncomfortable enough to realize she was intruding.

"Right, I've got you," she said slowly, "I'll just go into my room and watch T.V. with the sound turned up, okay? Y'know, Vi, there's no reason to give me that _look _you get. Y'know, the 'You should know why I'm annoyed with you' look—"

"Okay, I won't," said Violet, taking Carol's elbow and firmly steering her in the direction of her bedroom. "Now, if you wouldn't mind…"

"I've got you," repeated Carol, and for once she made herself scarce with no further fuss, leaving Violet to collapse on the couch again in relief and listen for the telltale buzz of the T.V. It was safe to continue.

"Sorry about that," she said. "She can be a bit dim. She won't cause us any trouble."

"You have no notes," commented Sherlock, looking decidedly ornery.

"I though notes would bore you," Violet said cautiously, deeply regretting her decision.

"Mmm, most certainly. But stuttering and dancing around bores me as well, so be careful."

"Right," said Violet, feeling the pressure more and more by the minute. "Just as a disclaimer, I've made the decision not to record, write, or do anything else to keep a permanent copy of our conversation. Just as a precaution. And I want this to feel natural, and be as painless as possible for you, so if you take issue with anything I say, feel free to tell me. Is that okay?"

"Yes, yes," said Sherlock impatiently, "Now, if you wouldn't mind beginning. I'd like to be home by the time Moriarty's convicted."

"Right," Violet repeated. She had never been this unprepared for a test in her life, let alone the biggest interview of her career. She was grasping at straws in thin air. Sherlock looked amused by her utterly lost expression, but she knew the amusement wouldn't last. She had to get herself off the ground. Just when she was about to burst out with the word "deduction" and pray something beneficial would follow, Sherlock spoke up.

"This is usually the juncture where the question of mine and John Watson's secret romance arises," he said, looking magnificent in his nonchalance despite the unflattering orange shade of her sofa. Violet's mouth stayed open as she scrambled to keep up with him. Surely he couldn't be attempting to put her at ease through a simple joke? Another person, perhaps, but not Sherlock Holmes.

"Even if I were interested in whatever hot gay shenanigans you and John Watson get up to behind closed doors, I wouldn't have been stupid enough to ask. Now that you've brought it up though, you've dug your own grave," she teased, eyeing him for a reaction. Testing the waters, toe by toe. It felt rather like poking a sleeping dragon in the eye. Sherlock wrinkled his nose in impolite puzzlement.

"I'm afraid it's your grave you're digging if you do intend to stray down that path," he said with deadpan intimidation. Violet winced. Surely he had to understand she had merely been combating his sarcasm? Or was he just playing with her head? It was probably safest to take and say everything as dead serious, and joking was not allowed. Establishing ground rules and all of that rubbish.

"Just trying to break the ice," she said, shifting uncomfortably. "Won't be trying it again. I thought we'd start by you repeating your deductions from the day of the trial and taking me through how you made them step by step. I assume you remember everything?"

"Not everything," Sherlock said, looking appreciative at her jumping straight to the chase. "Only things I consider of importance. I wouldn't want to waste necessary storage space."

"Oh," said Violet, interested. Focusing in on his brain was better for the both of them anyway. She could go down this tangent. "Do you not absorb what you consider unnecessary at all, or you do you dispose of it later?"

"A combination," Sherlock said, "Not absorbing at all is most convenient, but things do tend to creep in at times, in which case deletion is my only option."

"Deletion," repeated Violet, immensely relieved all awkwardness seemed to have gone straight out the window. Sherlock had on the expression he sometimes did in pictures she saw in the papers, the sort of look she couldn't see past the sheer intensity of. A level of concentration enviable to all the ordinary people. And she was witnessing it firsthand! "You can forcibly expel knowledge from your brain?" Oh dear, she sounded more incredulous than she'd intended. Thankfully, Sherlock didn't seem to take offense. He merely raised an eyebrow.

"Selective amnesia is a medically proven phenomenon," he said. "And most instances are well-publicized."

"Yes," said Violet, reminding herself firmly that letting the condescension in his voice get under her skin would be counterproductive. They had only just made it past the initial hurtle of getting settled in without anyone becoming grossly offended. "And most are related to head-trauma. How do you manage it voluntarily?"

"You're forgetting that selective amnesia also occurs when coping with mental trauma," said Sherlock. "People can forcibly un-remember all sorts of unpleasant things with barely any effort at all. Consciously choosing which things are removed isn't all that difficult. I hardly need to think on it anymore, and even in the beginning it wasn't a challenge after I'd come up with a technique."

"What sort of a technique?"

"Negative association," said Sherlock.

"You bring unpleasant things to mind when you think of unnecessary information, and eventually your brain assumes the information itself is unpleasant and skips over it automatically," said Violet slowly, fighting to not sound skeptical. Nobody liked a cynic. And who was she to dictate what the human brain could or couldn't do, with so many nuances and complexities still unsolved even by the experts in neuroscience? Never mind that Sherlock's star-bound IQ was an outlier in itself.

"It was very time consuming at first," said Sherlock, a surprising earnestness opening his face. "I had to come up with a list of things unpleasant enough for my brain to actively avoid thinking about, and eventually I realized negative emotions were more effective than, say, an isolated event. Now I bring the emotion to mind, and the information is gone within a second."

"That's completely brilliant," breathed Violet. "Can you—I'm sorry, this is probably annoying to ask—but could you do it now, if I offered you a piece of irrelevant information? Could you briefly absorb it and get rid of it that quickly?"

"Yes, I'd imagine so," Sherlock said, looking pleased at her obvious awe.

"Would you mind?" Violet asked, trying not to hold her breath. Sherlock thought it over for a moment.

"Normally, I would," he said finally, "But I was always curious to know whether a physical change takes place during the deletion, and I never had an interested third party willing to observe before."

"Couldn't you watch yourself in the mirror?"

"Everything goes into deleting as efficiently as possible," said Sherlock, "There is no room for multitasking, or distraction of any sort."

"I can understand that," Violet said, though she really couldn't. It seemed like she could never think about just one thing at a time. Everything went wild with new priorities and time management and everything else she had to do, from calorie-counting and what to wear to work to finding the right words to not get ousted from her job and treading the delicate line between indignant and insolent every day at CAM Global News. She never had any space at all to just let herself do nothing. "Deletion" was almost the perfect embodiment of that "nothing" in her mind. The ultimate mental cleanse. Things would be much simpler if she could delete everything onerous instantaneously. Who knew Sherlock Holmes could be so zen? "What about emotions?"

"What about them?" asked Sherlock, eyes narrowed.

"Can you delete a negative emotion with another negative emotion the same way? Do they cancel each other out?" Violet asked, mentally bracing herself for a typically Sherlock Holmes response of "I don't have any to cancel". He was astronomically intelligent, yes. Emotionally aware? Certainly not, if the accounts of anyone to meet him other than John Watson were anything to go by. Sherlock, to Violet's immense relief, look puzzled more than vacantly apathetic.

"I don't suppose I've tried," he said, casting his eyes about her flat in a misty way that indicated he wasn't really looking. "I can delete the events that cause the emotions, and I suppose there really isn't much of a difference."

"No, there is," Violet blurted without thinking. "Like, when a trigger makes you think about a trauma, do you remember the trauma itself, or do you just feel what you associate with it? The emotions are usually the bad part, not the actual memory."

Sherlock was silent. Violet felt all together hot and bothered, and not in the pleasant way. She was forgetting her place. She was not supposed to blather on about her own problems or attempt to act as a pseudo-therapist for Sherlock. Ask questions about the work, nothing more. She was the journalist. Interviewer. Stranger. Just when she steeled herself enough to press on and ignore the moment, Sherlock spoke, a definite challenge in his voice she hadn't heard before. He wasn't happy about being questioned by her.

"And which traumatic event in your life would you be thinking of, since this obviously isn't hypothetical?" he asked, rhetorically and cruelly. Violet stayed silent, bracing herself for the verbal skewering she was long due for and weighing how to handle it. She couldn't stop her face from heating in embarrassment. "Was it the guilt that came with prostituting yourself to a married man while you taught his children? Or something associated with your mentally ill mother, perhaps? Or—"

"Right on all counts," Violet interrupted, trying to access as much "nothingness" as she could so as to not let her voice quiver. Whether it wanted to out of irritation or shame, she didn't know. "Forgive me, Mr. Holmes, for not being hypothetical. It's not in my place to question your methods. But getting back to business, how did you deduce my mother is mentally ill in the first place? I don't think I ever specified why I needed to care for her."

Sherlock obviously took note of the "Mr. Holmes" in place of his first name. He ignored the new frostiness in her voice, latching on to the proverbial olive branch she'd extended without further comment.

"Element of probability," he said simply, "Mental health care is more costly than physical care, and more socially stigmatizing as well, which would give Magnussen further ammunition against you. It would seem you're a veritable land mine of secrets. I'd wager a guess at paranoid schizophrenia or psychopathy for a specific illness, since she's clearly in a permanent ward."

"Paranoid schizophrenia," Violet answered promptly. She was in no mood to go into further discussion about her mother's delusions of cameras in corners and bugs in the walls, or the divine irony that came with her basically living her mother's worst nightmare. "So, continuing with the element of probability thing…at the trial I'm guessing you first surmised that I had a lover, and then the element of probability was that he was a married man, as you already knew you were looking for something Magnussen had against me."

"Yes," said Sherlock. "I take note of all known facts, gather as much information as I can based on what I notice, tally the possible solutions, and choose the one that seems most likely. After that, it's a only matter of proof if I'm applying the technique to a case. Quite simple, really."

"Can I try?" Violet asked too eagerly. The look Sherlock threw her indicated there was little he'd less like to witness. "You can correct me as harshly as you want," she added hastily, not wanting to back down now that he had given her such a clear formula to his craft. "I'm just curious to get a feel for it if I'm to do it justice in the article."

"By all means, go ahead then," said Sherlock faux-graciously, spreading his arms to reveal the buttons on his splendid coat. "But on second thought, why use my appearance today? Why not put your memory to the test as well, if you want to try out my shoes entirely? So much of what I do is based on recalling minute details at the drop of a hat. In any case, I'd much rather hear your _deduction _on my appearance at the trial. It's only fair, since that's when I deduced you."

Violet knew full well he was testing her. Waiting to see if she would retract her idea and retreat back into the safe waters of letting him do the talking. Well, she wasn't going to give him what he wanted. She was a strong, independent, thinking-on-her feet kind of person and all that rubbish, and she was _not _going to let Sherlock best her that easily. Conjuring an image of him before the trial was simple enough. Violet had been subconsciously attempting to absorb every detail of him. All she had to do was close her eyes. When she opened them again, a corner of his mouth was upturned. Whether in anticipation of her failure or innocent amusement, she didn't know.

"Er…you weren't wearing a tie, even though it was clear formal attire was required," Violet began shakily, trying not to look at him. "Even John Watson was wearing a tie, and he never does in most photographs. I'd say you left one off because you're trying to show how much you don't care. Everything else you were wearing was very pricey—still is—and formal, so my guess is you left the tie off to still appear above it all and not because you forgot. You had product in your hair as well, and you were wearing expensive cologne. You care about your appearance and the image it projects, and you consciously work to set yourself apart by how much you don't give a—" She trailed off, searching for a more professional word and going uncomfortably silent when she didn't find one. Sherlock's eyes had narrowed dangerously.

"Or maybe I just don't like wearing ties," he said, and Violet took it as a sign to move away from the topic as soon as possible.

"Or maybe you don't like wearing ties," she repeated with as firm a nod as she could manage. "I'm not even going to ask how I did, because I'm sure it was horrible. But that's your job, not mine. You play the violin, right?"

"Yes, I do," said Sherlock, taking her lead. "It helps me think. And relax, if I have the time." His sharp features had taken on a curious dreaminess. Violet quite liked how it softened his face.

"Any other hobbies?" she asked, before letting her mouth get the better of her. "Other than your wild sexcapades with John Watson, obviously." She smiled, hoping he would see it as the harmless joke it was. Miraculously enough, Sherlock smiled back this time.

"Sexcapades," he repeated sardonically. "No, unless I need the violin to think on something, I focus solely on the work. I'm sure John would describe my dedication as robotic."

Violet had to bite back her next automatic questions. _What are you distracting yourself from? What are you trying so hard to repress? What goes on behind those eyes of yours? _She knew actually voicing her curiosity was a death wish. Sherlock seemed to sense the activity in her brain. He leaned forward and eyed her curiously, openly staring into her eyes. Violet fought to not let her breath catch at his proximity and intensity.

"You are terrible at hiding what you're thinking," he observed, still staring straight through her. Violet's cheeks heated. "Your eyes are ridiculously expressive. Whatever you're dying to ask, go ahead. It's clear you're bursting."

"No, I'm fine," said Violet shakily as he finally leaned back. "I want to come out of this in one piece, thanks. Er, how about we go back to the deletion. Are you still willing to delete something for me?"

"By all means," said Sherlock graciously. Violet chewed her bottom lip, running over all the things Sherlock would deem unimportant. Popular music, Carol and Pool Boy's romance of a sort, where she bought her clothes, Kim Kardashian's antics, the premiere date of the new season of _Mad Men, _the fact that this particular pair of shoes were a half-size too small and would give her awful blisters if she walked so much as a foot in them…

"Lindsay Lohan has been in rehab six times so far," she blurted, smirking in amusement when Sherlock's nose wrinkled automatically. "Go."

Sherlock's eyes immediately slid into a curiously blank state that gave Violet the shivers. They were still open, but the sudden lack of thought or emotion in them reminded her of Magnussen, who was cold in an empty way that made him all the more frightening. Dead eyes. She had to force herself to keep watching, not wanting him to get an inkling of her discomfort.

"All gone," said Sherlock, the usual depth returning to his face instantly. "You shivered. What did it look like?"

"The lights were on but no one was home," answered Violet, not wanting to dwell on it. "There was definitely a physical change." Another question was bubbling to her lips, one she had to physically bite back. _What negative emotion did you think of?_

"Ridiculously expressive," huffed Sherlock, eyeing her amusedly. "You also bite your bottom lip when you're nervous or thinking. Whatever it is you want to ask, ask it. Watching you struggle to restrain yourself is exhausting in itself."

"Will you get angry?" asked Violet, moving to bite her lip nervously and immediately catching herself with a scowl. Sherlock's smirk had grown.

"Mm, I have an exceptionally tight handle on my emotions. If I get angry, I probably won't realize it until much later. Ask."

"I don't suppose," began Violet, struggling not to stutter, "You remember the emotion you used to delete? The memory?"

"The memory usually fades immediately with the deletion. As for the emotion—isolation," said Sherlock in a curiously subdued voice. Violet swallowed. She couldn't help but wonder what he'd been through. Sherlock caught the thought, just like he had with all her other stupid questions. "You were going to ask me something else earlier. I'd prefer you'd get it over and done with, or I shall have no choice but dwell on it later. I hate not knowing things."

"So I've noticed," said Violet, smiling, "But I don't want to offend you. It's really nothing of importance. I'm just too nosy for my own good. I don't mind not asking."

"And I hate not knowing," repeated Sherlock. Violet took a deep, shivering breath.

"Oh. Er, I just was wondering what you're distracting yourself from," she said haltingly, "I mean, you work all the time and you don't seem like a robot at all, so I just assumed you try to distract yourself from something through the work, and I wondered what." When he was silent, Violet went cold. Now she'd done it. Put her foot through her mouth good and proper. Backtracking quickly before she could alienate him for good, Violet stuttered. "I'm sorry, I'm being stupid and intrusive. I always overanalyze things and I don't think I have any deduction skills, unfortunately. Just disregard that, I'm being an idiot." She laughed shakily.

Sherlock was still silent. Violet couldn't help it; she bit her lip.

"Myself," he blurted, startling her so badly she jumped in her chair. "I work to distract from myself and the—noise."

"Oh," said Violet again, mind whirling a mile a minute. Noise. What did that mean? Internal noise, maybe. The pain of genius. Who knew how many thoughts Sherlock churned through and discarded in a second? It had to be exhausting, thinking all the time, and always about something of importance too. Violet may not have had the power of deletion, but at least she had the option of turning off all the "real" worries to read the latest celebrity gossip or indulge in some comfort food. Her own version of "nothing". Maybe Sherlock's ability to achieve an actual, palpable "nothing" just made the "somethings" more trying. She gulped, unsure how to greet his surprising honesty.

Sherlock's phone saved her the trouble by ringing. He picked up immediately, disregarding her in favor of whoever was calling. Violet tried not to listen in. She didn't want to invade his boundaries. Sherlock stayed silent for a minute before hanging up abruptly, not even bothering to say goodbye. He got to his feet.

"I'm afraid I have to leave," he said. Violet tried not to think too hard on whether she was imagining the flavor of regret in his voice. "Do you have enough information for the article?"

"Yes, I have more than enough," Violet said pointedly, hoping he got the message as _I'm not going to write about any of the little human clues you gifted me with right and left_. "I'll call you when I'm done writing it so you can read through and tell me your thoughts. I'll probably have it done within a day or two. Did you find out the outcome of the trial?"

"Indeed," said Sherlock brusquely as he straightened his coat and headed to the door. "Moriarty has been found not guilty."

He didn't stay long enough to hear Violet's gasp, letting the door slam behind him.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: I think it goes without saying that anything I write about Sherlock's brain or brains in general is just me talking out of my arse. I don't know anything about brains, including my own, let alone one like Sherlock's. FYI, when it comes to Sherlock's awareness of Moriarty's plot, I'm disregarding the explanation he gives Anderson as fake. I don't like that it dismisses Moriarty as the real threat and excellent villain he is, and I generally assume Sherlock is bullshitting a lot in TEH to get erase the pain of not being able to predict and correctly counter act every little thing and all that rubbish. Thank you for reading, and reviews are much appreciated.**


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